Jorrocks' Jaunts and Jollities eBook

I. THE SWELL AND THE SURREY

What true-bred city sportsman has not in his day put
off the most urgent business—­perhaps his
marriage, or even the interment of his rib—­that
he might “brave the morn” with that renowned
pack, the Surrey subscription foxhounds? Lives
there, we would ask, a thoroughbred, prime, bang-up,
slap-dash, break-neck, out-and-out artist, within three
miles of the Monument, who has not occasionally “gone
a good ’un” with this celebrated pack?
And shall we, the bard of Eastcheap, born all deeds
of daring to record, shall we, who so oft have witnessed—­nay,
shared—­the hardy exploits of our fellow-cits,
shall we sit still, and never cease the eternal twirl
of our dexter around our sinister thumb, while other
scribes hand down to future ages the paltry feats of
beardless Meltonians, and try to shame old Father Thames
himself with muddy Whissendine’s foul stream?
Away! thou vampire, Indolence, that suckest the marrow
of imagination, and fattenest on the cream of idea
ere yet it float on the milk of reflection. Hence!
slug-begotten hag, thy power is gone—­the
murky veil thou’st drawn o’er memory’s
sweetest page is rent!

Harp of Eastcheap, awake!

Our thoughts hark back to the cover-side, and our
heart o’erflows with recollections of the past,
when life rode the pace through our veins, and the
bark of the veriest mongrel, or the bray of the sorriest
costermonger’s sorriest “Jerusalem,”
were far more musical sounds than Paganini’s
pizzicatos or Catalani’s clamorous caterwaulings.

And, thou, Goddess of the Silver Bow—­chaste
Diana—­deign to become the leading star
of our lucubrations; come perch upon our grey goose
quill; shout in our ear the maddening Tally-ho! and
ever and anon give a salutary “refresher”
to our memory with thy heaven-wrought spurs—­those
spurs old Vulcan forged when in his maddest mood—­whilst
we relate such feats of town-born youths and city
squires, as shall “harrow up the souls”
of milk-sop Melton’s choicest sons, and “fright
their grass-galloping garrons from their propriety.”
But gently, Pegasus!—­Here again, boys,
and “let’s to business,” as they
say on ’Change.

’Twere almost needless to inform our readers,
that such portion of a county as is hunted by any
one pack of hounds is technically denominated their
country; and of all countries under the sun, that of
the Surrey subscription foxhounds undoubtedly bears
the bell. This superiority arises from the peculiar
nature of the soil—­wretched starvation stuff
most profusely studded with huge sharp flints—­the
abundance of large woods, particularly on the Kent
side, and the range of mountainous hills that run
directly through the centre, which afford accommodation
to the timid, and are unknown in most counties and
unequalled in any.